tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25862905357854627612019-01-21T18:59:45.844+00:00Ronnie Kerrigan: The Undiscovered WritingsRonnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-42654808076082892112015-12-24T16:54:00.000+00:002017-06-03T11:47:20.644+01:00Notes from a Cast-Iron Bathtub at Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WVfhYSwd9_8/VQ1qMFA3vxI/AAAAAAAAEuM/Mn3ZrzuH3rE/s1600/woman-in-bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WVfhYSwd9_8/VQ1qMFA3vxI/AAAAAAAAEuM/Mn3ZrzuH3rE/s1600/woman-in-bath.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The landscape has disappeared behind a curtain of silent, glistening snow. The wind is fierce, chilly, full of mischief. It's approaching dawn. I'm sitting in a small moderately <span class="st">groomed </span> living room. The Christmas tree partially fills the space with a gentle greyish-blue light, a timeless stillness.</div></div><br />The streetlamp outside glows soft&nbsp;like a distant&nbsp;fire. The cars are all white and the trees are dressed in snow. The pale winter sky protects the silence. A silence that permeates the snowy icy depths. The scene is compelling and delicate. I think of my mother and father's grave covered in snow, the sparse trees nearby <span class="st">eloquent in grief</span>. My parents lie in cold, unimaginable silence.<br /><br />The weather forecast confirms that the snow is causing mayhem. This is how it must be. I shake my head. One should not dread snow for it gives warmth and deadens the monotony of pale skies. Such days are not lost for they are tenderly captured by one's measureless, evolving memory, to be evoked perhaps on a warm afternoon, or evening, when peace and quiet abound.&nbsp; <br /><br />I decide&nbsp;to take a bath. The fact that I bathe in my neighbour's cast-iron bath tub with his girlfriend ensconced in its interior causes me little concern. Her warm green eyes, soft hands, and calm smile beckon me to join her. I do so with profound pleasure. A hot scented bath with a young woman hardly accrues to bitter disappointment so close to dawn. I make an absurd effort to shroud the flight of years which have ravaged my body.&nbsp; <br /><br />Nicole - her long, silky blonde hair spread over her shoulders - tells me she is about to take flight with another man. Indeed, it is her intention never to be in this part of the world again. We drink champagne and celebrate her good fortune.<br /><br />'I always leave a man in December,' she ventures. 'I must be alone each January. I adore the fresh air and sunlight. It's vital I recharge my&nbsp;batteries before embarking on each new love affair.'<br /><br />'Of course,' I reply. Nicole's exceptional beauty justifies my response.<br /><br />'Anyway, I dislike being in love. The thought that a man would believe I could love him day in, day out, forever, is frankly horrifying.' She understood her power over men, or women for that matter. And I knew nothing about her. <br /><br />'I see&nbsp;a look in your eyes I've witnessed a thousand times.'<br /><br />'Really?' I say, murmuring and trying to smile.<br /><br />'There are few moments of true passion and exhilaration in one's life. In fact, most of&nbsp;one's time is illusory and wasted.' Nicole leans towards me. 'How old are you?'<br /><br />'After sharing this bath ... Talking to you, I'm not sure? After thirty I stopped counting. To do otherwise ...&nbsp; well, it seemed pointless and troublesome.'<br /><br />Her wide green eyes stare at me. They sparkle with desire. 'Everything must come to an end.' Her lips part in a sweet, delightful smile. 'Maybe we should just embrace this moment. I'm a woman, which I see you've noticed, and life is always too short.'<br /><br />Nicole enfolds my hands softly, pulls me towards her, and kisses me. My body gives itself up to pleasure and rises from the dead. <br /><div style="text-align: center;">* &nbsp; &nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i><b>Reflection:&nbsp;</b></i></span> Even though Christmas Day is tomorrow some people are looking forward with ill-conceived eagerness to warm spring mornings, roads without snow, trains and planes running on time, and going to work in heated offices and shops.<br /><br />A delusive yearning to embrace a brash, fast world is visible in their cold eyes, bored faces, and weary demeanour. They fail to notice the immediate radiant beauty around them that will soon fade.<br /><br />I have no wish to sound overly eccentric, but it appears that human folly remains fashionable and contagious, and dominates, to a terrifying degree, the eternal mind of human life. Quite disheartening, really.</div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-23287922243503850032015-11-04T11:04:00.000+00:002016-09-04T01:12:41.391+01:00The TruthTeller and The Idiot (Hard to tell which is which)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b723_G1ehFI/VZhrLohAmAI/AAAAAAAAEzM/m1pxlCXE9DI/s1600/FACE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b723_G1ehFI/VZhrLohAmAI/AAAAAAAAEzM/m1pxlCXE9DI/s320/FACE.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>A GP surgery. Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal is sitting behind his desk. </i></span></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: (<i>sighing</i>) Take a seat. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Long pause.</i> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Do you know that one thousand individuals dictate the thoughts, opinions, customs, trends and fads of our entire world of seven billion people? What we eat, wear, read, watch, talk about, do, think?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: Well ... No.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: I thought so. You're an Idiot! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Pause</i>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: D<span style="font-family: inherit;">o<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span>you know I was beat and bullied as a boy. Of course not! Furthermore, my head's too big for my body, my body's too big for my trousers, and my wife sounds like a squealing fiddle! The stink of boredom is everywhere. I'm dead and so are you! A trivial matter, you'll agree.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: I'm sorry ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: To hell with your damned, "I'm sorry". What are <i>you </i>here to whine about?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: (<i>uncomfortable</i>) Well ... Sometimes, I hold two thoughts at the same time. For instance, my life has purpose, yet it is without meaning. Sometimes, when I'm in a room full of people I feel I'm in an echo chamber listening to myself. Sometimes ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Sometimes! Sometimes! Sometimes! Me! Me! Me! Get a grip on yourself! Can't you talk without bleating?! You live in a dream world like most idiots. (<i>Shouts</i>) Wake up! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">! </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">WACH AUF! </span><br /><br /><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Long pause. </span></i><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: There's no point in telling you lies. I'm a hypocrite and a wretched doctor. What impelled me to live in this multi-coloured hell escapes me. Don't be fooled by certificates, diplomas and expertise. A day comes when all men and women are proved wrong. (<i>Thoughtful</i>) Even a professed 'genius' like Einstein will get his comeuppance one day. I believe he</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> never took his hands out of his trouser pockets, even in bed. What a strange man?! (<i>Pause</i>) A few inescapable truths - I see I'm overwhelming you - something like genius cannot be measured. What's more, excess of wealth, or natural ability, do not ensure happiness, success, or freedom from diarrhea.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: (<i>timidly</i>) Indeed ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: I'm sorry to say there's no medication for your condition<i>.</i></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: <i>Really</i>?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Yes. Really<span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span> You appear to me to be a person who is holding on. Old and weary before your time. A mixture of anger, tenderness and shattered visions. In short, you're carrying a perpetual burden. A million shapes and sizes of shadow beleaguer your mediocre mind! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: I see ... Well ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Isn't it good to fit into society. However that may be, I once aspired to be a farmer's wife: my parents were livid, of course. Instead, I'm a faceless </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">false</span> dummy who has to listen to dreadful boring people whining and sobbing all day about large dark clouds and the absence of clear blue sky. (<i>Thoughtful</i>) One can only guess, of course ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: (<i>timidly</i>) Really ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: You're not the only one with a neurotic fear of growing old. We're bombarded daily with images of smooth faces like 'Thanksgiving Day' balloons, pert breasts, lineless mouths and full lips. (<i>Pause</i>) Here's my prognosis. You've taken stock of your life and realised how little you've achieved. You are leading a factitious life and not going anywhere. Welcome to the club, old chum!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: Oh …</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: (<i>writing</i>) Have you heard of euthanasia?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I: No … I don't think so?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Excellent. Take this confidential letter to a doctor friend of mine. His name and address is written on the envelope. He'll show - sorry - <i>tell</i> you all you need to know about the subject. (<i>Pause</i>) And good luck with the rest of your short life.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I:&nbsp; You said short?! ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: It did sound like it. I said, 'Good luck with the rest of your sport life'. You must learn to be less anxious. Goodbye. </span><br /><br /><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Idiot walks out into the sun and faints.</span></i><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">*</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Reflections:</i></b>&nbsp; </span></span>My wife is besotted with her in-car digital radio which she listens to in bed at night. My thoughts become hindered as I gaze at her lying in bed, bobbing her head, and wielding her feet aloft in time with the racket from her radio. When she exists in this 'self-induced' exile I am forced to confront my own neglected thoughts: a dreadful and precarious position for a dull, exaggerated creature&nbsp;such as myself.<br /><br />When language runs dry the mind is derailed. I walk around the old town square several times without seeing a living soul. They could be hiding perhaps, or pretending to be woodpeckers. I sit on a stone sculpture, brood, and doze off.&nbsp; Not good for the piles, not good at all.</div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-40995056275238951962014-11-12T14:55:00.000+00:002018-01-27T08:37:35.712+00:00In Search of a Different Existence<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cx33ORyBwgs/WM6OniaAJMI/AAAAAAAAF2U/ADsf81qwL3EbCqiCiF3q-iWPoQjdOrAOACLcB/s1600/Bindwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cx33ORyBwgs/WM6OniaAJMI/AAAAAAAAF2U/ADsf81qwL3EbCqiCiF3q-iWPoQjdOrAOACLcB/s400/Bindwood.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br /></div>I always ignored my late maternal uncle's irreverent greetings as I had no wish to quarrel. Gregory was a widower with years of richness, unhappiness and loss buried deep inside him. I silently sat in a low-backed, wooden chair taking care to sidestep his intense gaze. As he lost himself in his layered memories I often permitted my mind to wander in search of a different existence. Nothing too extravagant, something more than memorable, something entirely unforgettable.<br /><br />I imagine a perfect accomplished man in the company of a perfect accomplished woman. This calms me. It gives me time to forget what most preoccupies me. The woman and I are both high in spirit and wander in a place where the sweet flowers grow. Uncertainty, anxiety, painful surprises and evil cannot creep up on us and destroy our exquisite nature. We candidly grapple with existential questions: 'Why does a species such as ours not possess a well-shaped head similar to that of a camel?' - 'Why does bindweed proudly choke my plants?' and perhaps the most vexing question of all, 'Why do we sag with a heavy load as we traverse this earth until we die?'<br /><br />The woman and I are not fools. We speak of the complexity and stupidity of many things including the question of human love, of fate, of creation, of renewal, of desire. Our walk from the garden leads us to the edge of a splendid lake. The world seems captured in the slight silent water and in our pools of thought. Such moments of contentment last only a few minutes, but are worth hanging onto while they last for they bring a bolt of happiness.<br /><br />'You're an odd one. Why can't you make a clean sweep of things? Two children by two different woman and still not married! Your behavior is reprehensible.' Gregory's vitriolic voice jolts me from thought; I sigh, acquiesce and turn my eyes towards his gaunt face. 'I'm senile, worn out and have savage dreams,' Gregory exclaims. 'There's nothing left for me to discover in this world. Nothing.' I like Gregory: his intense thinking, his distaste for human ignorance, his mood that can toss like leaves in spring, his contempt for pity, his acceptance of growing old. <br /><br />Gregory remained active until his demise; sometimes taking a bus into town and a taxi home. The downside being that he stole the vehicles and picked up passengers on route for no charge. I usually had to post bail and collect Gregory from a police station. He lamented, at times: 'Why is my hair snowy-white?! I don't even like Christmas!' And while I was driving, 'A fine boat you have here. Goes at a good pace. In this mist it's hard to tell where the shore starts or ends. How can you see?'<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><span style="color: yellow;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflection</span></b></i></span>: I was the only boy to drop out of college because I was pregnant. The psychoanalyst said I was obviously starved for attention and fabricated the pregnancy to skip class. When I give birth she jumped from the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. An observer believes her last words were: 'I'll never eat kangaroo meat again'.<br /><div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-23364800749456507802014-10-24T15:42:00.000+01:002016-06-30T12:57:02.494+01:00How to Dine with a Noisy Eater and Survive<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VIavStkXdrQ/Se6jtoUVPqI/AAAAAAAAADY/UXws7UUczMI/s1600-h/30991828-always-give.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vvaXdv4IBbs/U8UmVvmDA3I/AAAAAAAAD1A/S3ejFaCXWbw/s1600/Narcissists.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vvaXdv4IBbs/U8UmVvmDA3I/AAAAAAAAD1A/S3ejFaCXWbw/s1600/Narcissists.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">I met an ex-girlfriend yesterday afternoon. At first I thought it was a stranger who had approached me, then I discovered it was Arabella. We eat in a sleazy bar where the women drank beer and the men danced. The longer I gazed at&nbsp;Arabella's face the less I understood what I was looking at.<br /><br />Life doesn't prepare you for instant confusion, how to think rationally under duress, or how to dine with a 'noisy eater' without wishing to push their face in whatever they are eating. Arabella looked weary, her face damaged by alcohol. She kept flipping through missed calls and messages on her mobile. This tore me up. And to think she was once the prettiest girl in the village.<br /><br />Appalled by her appearance and behaviour, and devoured by my incessant need to naively judge others simply out of boredom and conceit, my mind went into overdrive. Recalling our short romance reminded me how irrelevant it was.<br /><br />After some small talk she turned to me, her hazel eyes ready to shed tears, and said, 'Do you remember <i>the </i>afternoon by the river? What images and sensations does it provoke?' </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'A fear of rats.'</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'You're teasing me. It's the passage of time, emotional currents, fish, men in nylon thigh waders, fishing rods ... ' </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'You have a great memory, and, if I may say so, a great imagination.' Her self-inflated snobbery and constant preening made me wonder how we had coexisted in a past now entirely dissolved.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'Do you notice anything about me?' </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'You still radiate mindless malice when you're not the subject of praise.' </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'No, silly. I'm wearing the same skirt!' </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'But you <i>were </i>nine, I was ten! You must be approaching sixty!' (I knew Arabella was fifty-two now.)&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'How do I look, and be truthful?'</div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I lied as best I could. It seemed to satisfy her desire for assurance regarding her appearance. For a moment I saw the smile of a young girl when she was nine, who enjoyed picnics, butterflies, cats, playing the piano, inventing funny nicknames, and mimicking teachers. I didn't disclose to Arabella that I was wearing charity shop<i> </i>clothes and shoes, which, in their simplicity, remained tight, just like my finances.<br /><br />After we said goodbye I waited a moment or two. I watched Arabella walking slowly towards the town square, her head slightly drooped. However hard I tried, all I could think about was her face covered with wrinkles of anxiety, regret and weariness. &nbsp; <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* </div></div><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><i>Reflections:&nbsp; </i></b></span>Scientific experts believe that human beings have about 7,000 facial expressions at their disposal. My wife wears an incessant expression and her resemblance to&nbsp;Colonel Rosa Klebb, a fictional character from the James Bond film<i> From Russia with Love</i>,&nbsp;is uncanny, let alone disheartening.<br /><br />I try to forget that my wife keeps her 'cocktail party' face (along with other faces) locked in her dressing table. Sometimes you can hear the faces talk for hours: mostly about make-up, beauty tips, parenting, and irritable bowel&nbsp;syndrome.&nbsp;Thankfully I have my Sooty glove puppet and the darkness.</div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-20074705716193184002014-09-26T15:12:00.000+01:002016-08-31T15:40:06.345+01:00The Book Sniffers Club <div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6JMHtb2WLno/VU3eZ4lIZhI/AAAAAAAAExM/WLbwNsngVN4/s1600/Book%2BSniffing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6JMHtb2WLno/VU3eZ4lIZhI/AAAAAAAAExM/WLbwNsngVN4/s400/Book%2BSniffing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>It began with a letter addressed to the man of the house so my wife read it first. The letter instructed that a car would pick me up at eight o'clock that evening. No reason, no signature. Mysterious, even dangerous, yet I waited with eager anticipation. I watched a black car with tinted windows arrive and stop outside my house. The driver, roughly my age, stepped out of the car. He was well dressed and told me to sit in the back seat. He then asked me politely to place a black hood over my head. After that the driver didn't speak. I shrunk deep into the seat, stayed silent, and regretted wearing tight alligator underwear.<br /><br />We drove for about an hour until I heard the tyres hit gravel and the car stopped. The driver held on to my arm as we walked silently along a gravel path. I heard a door bell ring. A door opened, and a male voice politely invited us inside. When the door shut I was told to remove the hood. I was standing in the reception of a large stately house. A portly, red-faced man flashed a smile and greeted me warmly. 'Splendid! Glad you could come. I'm Maxwell. Welcome to The Book Sniffing Club. We've been expecting you.' He led me to a large, round table where six people were sitting, and introduced me. The table contained a pile of books in various stages of decay.<br /><br />'As you can see dear fellow,' Maxwell continued, 'you are in the prestigious company of fellow book sniffers. Decaying books are wondrous. The chemicals ... the volatile acids and emissions combine to make a vivid musty smell!' His face became redder as he spoke. He immediately lifted a book from the table, raced to a chair, sat down, and buried his nose deep inside the book jacket.<br /><br />A woman flashed a smile and indicated a place at the table for me. I was struck by her beauty and husky voice. Her name was Rachel. 'It's open seating. Here, sit beside me.' I liked her. She described how her habit had developed through different stages; sniffing newspapers, pamphlets, then progressing to the slicks: <i>Elle, </i><i>Cosmopolitan</i>, <i>Marie Claire</i>, then <i>Horse &amp; Hound</i>. I paused, and though how ludicrous, yet profoundly beguiling, the whole situation was.<br /><br />Some of the group were using straws to delve deep into the spines of books, and took long deep sniffs, then sat back in exhilaration. Rachel said fresh books were all right for beginners, but nothing could beat an old crusty book. I asked if they had ever been raided by the police. She crossed her legs, then she laughed. 'No fear! Most members have influential positions, or connections, within the police and judiciary<i>.'</i><br /><br />Rachel handed me a straw, smiled, and pointed to the books, 'Now get sniffing!' I placed my straw deep into the spine of an old book. I believe it was a first edition, a first issue copy of <i>Grimms Fairy Tales</i>. The last thing I remember is inhaling, feeling drowsy, melting in a blue haze, and losing consciousness.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">* &nbsp; </div><span style="color: yellow;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span></b></i></span>: Throughout my life I have sought good advice and fallen supremely beneath it. I have often, undeniably, encountered many good creatures whose talk and laughter meant nothing. Each day these creatures performed a motionless, timeless dance; their eyes glazed with tragic emotion.&nbsp; <br /><br />There were eternal problems, of course. What to fall back on during <span class="mw-headline" id="Telecommunication_outage_classifications">telecommunication downtime?</span> How to deal with such a loss? How does one communicate with dispirited creatures who have nothing to confide? Their bodies trembling, their minds discarded to avoid engagement, misapprehension, the chance to escape. To get out! Is it a triumphant option to remain a shadow on a page, never daring to look away from a screen? Each and every day? Like a cat watching a bird? They didn't see it that way. Did they <i>see </i>it that way? Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-19757351536230044722014-08-24T23:45:00.000+01:002016-09-01T11:25:53.036+01:00The Tranquil Clock <div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZmdWcM3c3rg/Vy-1pN5gEOI/AAAAAAAAFbE/7KAwaCd_5uQpUO6X9P9wUzICbuZ7a9LJQCKgB/s1600/Clock2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZmdWcM3c3rg/Vy-1pN5gEOI/AAAAAAAAFbE/7KAwaCd_5uQpUO6X9P9wUzICbuZ7a9LJQCKgB/s400/Clock2.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>An apartment. The white moonlight falls on each object in the living room in turn. The carpet, the table, the sofa, a bookcase, the pictures and paintings on the wall, a two-handed mahogany wall clock. All the inanimate objects appear to come alive, guests of the unusual white light. A meeting place for reality and illusion. A room invested with life. The minute hand (MH) and the hour hand (HH) of the clock strike up a conversation.</i></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>MH: I can't find my shoes.<br /><br />HH: You're a hand on a clock. Hands don't wear shoes. You need feet to wear shoes.<br /><br />MH: I can wear shoes if I wish.<br /><br />HH: If that's the case, what do you intend to do with the shoes? <br /><br />MH: Go for a walk.<br /><br />HH: Where to? Am I invited?<br /><br />MH: Only if you have a pair of shoes. (<i>Pause</i>) I feel a bowel movement coming on. (<i>Pause</i>) No. It's passed. I was thinking of going to see the town hall clock. I believe the clock was made by Dotards &amp; Sons of Liverpool and the bell and chimes by Naysayer &amp; Co of Scarborough. It is said the chimes are beautiful to the ear and pleasing to the soul. <br /><br />HH: Amazing. How do you know all this?<br /><br />MH: I heard the mistress of the house conversing. A fine looking woman. She had friends over for lunch. (<i>Pause</i>) You must have been daydreaming? A calamitous thing for a clock hand. They were elegantly dressed and sat around eating cake and drinking tea. During their conversations they talked about the beauty and splendor of the town hall clock.<br /><br />HH: Indeed.<br /><br />MH: I listened in polite silence, of course. <br /><br />HH: Of course. What with?<br /><br />MH: My ears. <br /><br />HH: You don't have ears. <br /><br />MH: How do you know? You can't see.<br /><br />HH: Irrefutable. <br /><br />MH: That's a big word for something that can't speak. <br /><br />HH: And for something that can't hear. <br /><br />MH: Exactly.<br /><br />HH: A fine pair we are. <br /><br />MH: Indeed. <br /><br /><i>Pause </i><br /><br />MH: Do you think it will ever end? <br /><br />HH: What? <br /><br />MH: Our friendship? Our existence?<br /><br /><i>Pause</i><br /><br />MH: That's funny. You shook your head. <br /><br />HH: What's funny?<br /><br />MH: You don't have a head. Neither have I.<br /><br />HH: You're reading too many spiritual books. <br /><br />MH: I can't read and neither can you.<br /><br />HH: True. <br /><br /><i>Pause </i><br /><br />MH: Do you think we have an ultimate goal beyond our prevailing use? <br /><br />HH: We are on a road with no sign posts. My soul tells me that you and I have a timeless, ultimate meaning. That is all.<br /><br />MH: You are indeed wise, even if I don't fully understand your explanation. <br /><br />HH: You're not alone. We could not exist without doubt.<br /><br />MH: I'm pleased you are my friend. <br /><br />HH: It is reciprocated for all eternity.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;*</div><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections:&nbsp; </span></b></i>Some individuals seem to possess qualities of character and a personality which others - no matter how long they may live - will never possess. Even when one feels irascible, bewildered, indignant, the value of an authentic friend is invaluable.<br /><br />However, if you're looking for a friend without faults you'll end up with none. Sometimes its hard to tell the wheat from the chaff. Just don't wait too long to find out which category some of your friend's are in - they may use and abuse you, and move on to the next soft touch.Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-11462246211622122772014-05-21T20:33:00.000+01:002016-08-17T16:53:53.738+01:00A Month in the Country <div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4m21JoWPtn8/U258y7d908I/AAAAAAAADos/EyXuQU-L5nA/s1600/desert_island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="392" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4m21JoWPtn8/U258y7d908I/AAAAAAAADos/EyXuQU-L5nA/s400/desert_island.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>During my daily stroll on a desert island I was accosted by either a woman sporting a beard; a man wielding a beard; or a hedgehog on stilts. In truth, the incident happened so swiftly I cannot be sure. I recalled how David slayed Goliath with a simple slingshot. I took off my right sandal and threw it in the air, which to my amazement distracted my assailant. Suddenly the man's shape and features softened. I removed one of my blue cotton toe socks, filled it with five 'twenty dollar' bills, and beat him about the head. Unfortunately, the effort proved fruitless. <br /><div><br />Despairing of hitting my assailant's head continuously with my sock (I felt the advent of a dazzling migraine), I enquired if he had change of a twenty. He announced, with the aid of a late 19th-century speaking trumpet, that he had a few nickels and quarters he could lend me. I thanked him and we exchanged currency. I filled my sock with stark bright coins. However, just as I was about to strike my assailant I was hit on the head by a flying sandal and lost consciousness.<br /><br />When I came round he had disappeared along with my blue cotton toe socks. However, he left a note that read, in its entirety, the abridged works of Shakespeare, and which also solemnly declared: 'I'm heading back to Toytown where donkey's ears remain a symbol of individuality and freedom.'<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* <br /><div style="text-align: left;">A neurologist recently confirmed I have 'alien limb syndrome' - the sensation that my 'right leg' is acting of its own accord. That would account for my 'right leg' saying, 'Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow,' each night as I retire to bed. It even has the audacity to wake me during my blessed sleep to deliver a Shakespearean soliloquy; usually one of Macbeth’s troubled musings which I now find tiresome. Moreover, it has the gall to express in mocking tone, 'How poor are they that have not patience.'</div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">This coming from a 'right leg' that walks away during conversations! Writes clandestine letters! Bleeds for no apparent reason! Runs errands for neighbours without my permission or knowledge! Quite frankly, it is tantamount to blatant attention-seeking! Even writing about my plight I find it hard to breathe.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To make matters worst my right leg is good-looking, intelligent, looks at least twenty years younger than the rest of my body, and is extraordinarily striking in a black leather jacket and heavy boots. </div></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">* </div></div><div><i><b><span style="color: yellow;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span></span></b></i>: One night I attended a performance of Ivan Turgenev's play <i>A Month in the Country </i>with my girlfriend Alisa. We had to leave three days after the start of the production as we both experienced dizzy spells and hallucinations due to lack of food and drink. </div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-84201714612502768582014-05-10T01:00:00.000+01:002016-08-17T17:29:30.403+01:00Reaching the End Without Trying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZzeDYD9EFP8/V7SO_EsfGxI/AAAAAAAAFp4/CQ4T-NDZod42zzHODWC5-uNZumpsny_ZQCLcB/s1600/Marketing%2Bfear2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZzeDYD9EFP8/V7SO_EsfGxI/AAAAAAAAFp4/CQ4T-NDZod42zzHODWC5-uNZumpsny_ZQCLcB/s400/Marketing%2Bfear2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>This morning I was lying in bed (awake, though snoring) when someone hammered on my front door. It was a neighbour, Ivar Kalmar, who I find difficult to listen, or talk to, without losing hair from my body. I could tell he was in distress. His bleached-blonde hair was standing <span class="def">upright</span>, and the tattoos on his heavy muscled arms were walking on all fours like a shaven-headed chimp with nappy rash.<br /><br />I also knew his house had four toilets. He explained that in deciding which toilet to use he had become gravely confused and bewildered. I could see by the stain on his elegant blue pajamas he had suffered a 'little' accident. I invited Ivar into my home; to sit in the cat’s litter tray. My cat felt threatened, of course, and is not the most generous creature on earth. In fact, it is a peerless disaster as far as alcohol and gambling are concerned. <br /><br />I poured fresh water in the cat’s feeding dish. The cat and I watched Ivar lick the dish bone dry. It seemed to have a calming effect on him. To disarm the silence I tried to engage Ivar in conversation. I commented on the marvelous array of automobiles outside his home, his family’s fine clothes, the numerous extensions made to his property, his profession as a high-ranking, marketing consultant.<br /><br />Suddenly, Ivar pounced, grabbed my neck with his hands, and started to rant: 'I haven’t slept for five days. I’m exhausted from working in a god-forsaken company I hate. A job I hate. And worrying about unpaid bills for things neither my family, nor myself, required in the first place.'<br /><br />'But you look so happy?! ... Your wife?! ... Your children?! ...'<br /><br />'DON’T MENTION MY WIFE. First it was dual master bedrooms, then separate houses in the same city, then separate states, then separate countries, then separate continents. She took everything, including my cherished toupee made out of parrot feathers.' <br /><br />'Really! I ... I <i>never </i>knew. I mean about your situation.' I fumbled behind me for an onion slicer, a large pot with a lid, or a large lid with a pot. The guy was nuts. Panic and anxiety bounced around in my brain: not much room, I know, but it’s the only one I can access. I grabbed a banana skin, and regretted eating the banana earlier. 'You should live like me. No television, smartphone, cyberspace, magazines, shopping. Marketing and advertising is brash, the bane of people’s lives!' I paused for a second. What was I saying?! The guy was in advertising, for heaven’s sake! I didn't tell him my cat had only last week bought expensive cat clothes, food, and sex toys on eBay, with my credit card. I was cleaned out.<br /><br />'Perhaps you should go and live in the mountains, the jungle, or the state of Ohio! Away from civilization!'<br /><br />He clamored to his feet. 'I believe you’re right. The mountains, the jungle, Ohio. I need to start packing.' He moved towards the door. I slightly relaxed my grip on the banana skin. With his eyes moving in different directions he turned to me and said, 'Sitting in your cat's litter tray has helped me reassess my perspective on life. How can I ever repay you?'<br /><br />As I pushed him out and engaged the twenty locks and bolts on my front door, I whimpered, 'Send me the fangs of the first venomous snake that bites you.' I believe Ivar exclaimed, 'You’ll get them, buddy! I swear, if it kills me, you’ll get them!' I had a feeling he was right. That's when I decided to move house.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">* </div><span style="color: yellow;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections: </span></b></i></span>People today don’t seem to trust each other the way they used to. Out of fear, I guess. Somehow picking up hitchhikers kinda makes sense to me again. First, I need 'fresh wheels' - <i>fast</i>.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SvTOKypqZ4I/U96nllhYnbI/AAAAAAAAD6E/grEJ4bGuKOg/s1600/HitchHiker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="393" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SvTOKypqZ4I/U96nllhYnbI/AAAAAAAAD6E/grEJ4bGuKOg/s1600/HitchHiker.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-62494512387168587962014-04-05T17:23:00.004+01:002017-03-22T23:04:56.305+00:00Broken Clocks and Blind Squirrels<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vYynsjGl1VM/U0O45AgDH-I/AAAAAAAADgs/kUnj8es9bNs/s1600/icecream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vYynsjGl1VM/U0O45AgDH-I/AAAAAAAADgs/kUnj8es9bNs/s1600/icecream.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I'm composing a ten-minute-play which is overrunning by two <span class="st">millisecond</span>s. I now consider it a blunder to have 12 male characters, 5 female characters, extras, chorus (m/f), and a prehistoric jaw bone that tragically dies of a frozen stomach while eating a <span class="st">sizeable </span>ice-cream cone. The title<i> How to Avoid Running Away with the Minister's Wife or Mother</i><span class="ChurchText"></span> is playing havoc with the plot, theme, and motif. Not to discount my mental and physical distress.<br /><br />Genre: will it be tragicom, satire, romance (try to forget the prehistoric jaw bone overdosing on ice cream), musical drama, pastoral, or a folk drama? I’m on the verge of collapse. Moreover, I have observed the drama lacks clarity concerning a central question: what compels the jaw bone to climb naked up a tree? a jaw bone that comes from an affluent and devout family? Am I exaggerating my plight? No, but I haven't eaten for days, I sleep on the ground at night, and can't stop shaking the hands of beggars<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="h"></a><b>,</b> broken clocks and blind squirrels. What would Molière do?</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It is late afternoon. I am surrounded by illness and death. O.K., I’m in a hospital, but is this how patients are treated in the 21st century? How did I get <i>here</i>? I performed the 'Heimlich manoeuvre' on a man called Maurice Flapper who swallowed his false teeth while dancing the Charleston. During the unfortunate incident Mr. Flapper's dentures flew out and bit me on the nose.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I might have been the victim of an unprovoked mastication attack if Mrs. Flapper had not been on hand to wrestle the dentures off, and secure the teeth in a container. As I left the scene I could hear the false teeth trying to escape: gnarling, snapping, and sounding uncannily like a debauched black crested gibbon. A policeman later informed me that the dentures had been taken away and destroyed. Apparently, I require a single stitch on my nose and, considering the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">trauma</span>, will not be able to eat fish, or french kiss, without written clearance from a reputable doctor.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span></b></i>: Today, I'm not waiting for Godot; I'm waiting for an escalope of energy to pervade my existence. My marriage is badly frayed, my trousers and finances in shreds, I've mouths to feed - some with herpes simplex lesions - and my family has grown tired of eating soup each day made from my wife's left elbow. To be honest, my wife isn't particularly happy either, especially during the simmering stage.<br /><br />At such moments I dig into my memory. If there is no sign of life I try to recall a time when all I had to worry about was the ability to forget.&nbsp; </div></div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-44631584181448213332014-02-12T14:39:00.000+00:002016-06-02T13:09:40.288+01:00In Search of Lost Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-swbni0xL5po/UvuEoOVbOxI/AAAAAAAADAg/q8CSdH5OEVI/s1600/InSearch_of_LostTime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-swbni0xL5po/UvuEoOVbOxI/AAAAAAAADAg/q8CSdH5OEVI/s1600/InSearch_of_LostTime.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Each year in early spring family members congregated at my parents' house and resolutely nodded at each other without talking. We sat in a billowing silence for several hours and listened to the noise of passing traffic. As the nearest road was 10 kilometers away this ritual affirmed that affinity and honesty do not mix. Eventually someone gravely undernourished would rise from a chair and faint. A sign that food should be served.<br /><br />We sat down to a restrained meal - usually throttled fish legs - and chatted about all sorts of things: work, illness, death, repetition, work, illness, death, repetition. Occasionally I gazed at the hollow assemble and thought, 'So many people sitting amid the paradoxes of identities and consciousness.' I include myself, of course. On numerous occasions I remember asking, with latent hope of dialogue, 'Where are <i>we</i>?' Did anyone answer? No one answered. <br /><br />For a while I couldn't fathom my father. He possessed an inability to think rationally under stress. He was a man who said what he thought, formally and orderly. And he could doze in front of the living room fire at any time of day. He had a habit of keeping his cardinal smile for fire light. His favourite hobby was shuffling socks. Sometimes he would suddenly leap from his chair, hold five socks aloft, and cry, 'A straight flush!'<br /><br />He used a carpet beater to punish his begats for minor misdemeanors even though our home was devoid of carpet. Impulsive behaviour, even disheartening, but plausible for one whose conditions in early life were occasionally difficult to navigate without collecting hurtful wounds. The floors were cloaked in linoleum which held a diversity of smells: buttermilk, cat urine, dirt from footprints, and the sweaty armpits of a hoary man from Bavaria whom no one in our family had met. <br /><br />My father, with his vanity on clear display, would insist on reading from his favourite book <i>In Search of Lost Time.</i> After a hundred pages - give or take a leaf - someone would usually chant, hyperventilate, or rush from the room wailing: 'It's not easy being a candle', or something of that nature. A frighting experience for the faint of heart, or, indeed, anyone with a clicking hip joint. Of course, my father would promptly stand up and in an uncomplicated and straightforward manner violently throw Proust to the floor. He would storm out of the room through the nearest window; his voice quivering in his wake, 'No man deserves honest ignominy heaped upon him! Plot is not the point!'<br /><br />To calm things down someone - usually myself - would simulate a sudden rise in temperature, fall to the floor, pant heavily, and whimper in a colourless voice: 'Malaria.' This act advised all present, in a simple, productive tone, that farewells were in order. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* </div><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span><span style="color: #3d85c6;">:</span> </i></b>A growing craze worldwide is knitting and crocheting. My addiction started when I read a copy of <i>Stitch 'n Stitch Again</i> in the dentist waiting room. Then, suddenly, I was knitting until the early hours, then night after night, when I was out with friends, or going to the bathroom. It didn't occur to me that my actions were, in anyway, pathological. I was using terms such as, 'I'm in the Zone,' and 'Pass me some thread, man.'<br /><br />My life was out of control. I sought help through<b style="font-weight: bold;"> </b><i>Knitters Anonymous</i> (KA) - a worldwide fellowship of men who share a desire to stop knitting - and it seems to be working. The only downside is that I used knitting as a calming distraction. However, I'm now making customised underwear for young single and married women and it seems to help me relax.Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-86853591729378981452013-12-02T06:58:00.000+00:002017-11-01T02:47:09.287+00:00A Rendezvous with My Literary Agent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGy_1yeukLY/UpmJ7oGEfSI/AAAAAAAACvs/rK59HnTfOSA/s1600/The+Escape+Ladder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGy_1yeukLY/UpmJ7oGEfSI/AAAAAAAACvs/rK59HnTfOSA/s400/The+Escape+Ladder.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Today I had lunch with my literary agent. On arrival she had misery painted all over her face. The maitre d' was kind enough to provide a face flannel to wash it off. Though a slender spirited creature my agent tends to be remote and vague. She has a tendency to walk on all fours when a conversation becomes exciting. For her, I play the fool. To her, I am a fool. <span style="font-style: italic;">C'est la vie. </span><br /><br /><div></div><div>'Well, what can I say?' She looked perplexed and started tossing shrewd and short comments in the air and catching them in her mouth. 'Your short novel has no plot, hurried syntax, and the title, <i>It's Hard to Debate Anything at Length While You're Unconscious,</i> is unengaging, let alone disconcerting'. I asked if she believed I would ever have a book published? She thought seriously and replied, 'Published is a big word.' She smiled. 'The only avenue left is to translate some of your work into English, even though <i>you</i> believe it already is<i>.</i>'<br /><br />Her words overwhelmed me. I'm aware I write badly. In fact, in my first novella, <i>Even Vegetables get Homesick,</i> I used the adverb 'badly' eighty-six times in one chapter. This naturally raises questions which frankly are unanswerable. <br /><br />'Maybe I'm wrong,' she said slowly and hesitantly, 'but I believe you should go on. Even though your stories are, shall <i>we </i>say, without meaning and littered by characters with the souls of sick sea creatures. Continue writing but try to enrich your vocabulary. And if I may say so, long inner dialogues, repetition, lack of a theme, will not attract readers' to your work.'<br /><br />I thanked my agent for her honesty, intelligence and company, though I felt trapped and wished to escape. I remained smiling as she left. Then my mind went offline. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div>Good news at last! My new play <i>A Little Bit of Bread and No Cheese</i> is to be staged off-off-off-off- Broadway. It will be staged in a baguette basket on the back of a scooter in Versailles, France. I must find bread that has charisma, that can engage with its audience, remember its lines, and can collaborate with butter without reverting to ominous panic. Slowly, I begin to feel joy again. The quality of the bread will make or break the project. My search begins ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections:</span> </i></b>Tonight my wife is doing her best to upset me. She is playing tom-tom drums with her prosthetic hip replacement implant, and yodeling <span class="st"><i>Prairie Lullaby </i>while chewing tobacco: juice running down her face.</span> <br /><br />I stop writing, grab an apple, and sit on the floor in a corner of the room. I watch my wife from this short distance. Holding the apple, I reflect a day will come when I can stand such discomfort no longer. What should I say? Suddenly my face becomes pale, lifeless. My eyes too tired to shed tears. After thinking about this for a moment, I lean my head against the wall in an effort to embrace sleep.</div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-33390730940839782202013-11-22T21:03:00.000+00:002017-11-01T02:55:29.795+00:00An Intimate Encounter with Décolletage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vnSnibN50IE/UTX38DAwtUI/AAAAAAAACas/AbyQE6ehvtM/s1600/decolletage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vnSnibN50IE/UTX38DAwtUI/AAAAAAAACas/AbyQE6ehvtM/s400/decolletage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It needs to be said</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">that I am compelled to greet some days with a gaunt face and heavy-lidded eyes. Sometimes my sense of the past, which lies buried in uncertainty and incompletion, pokes out and demands attention. It confirms what I discern<span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span> I crave a fresh start. No foot dragging for a day or two, at least. If the silence is unbearably painful I shall manage the chaos with unconscious humour. I've subtlety managed it before, though not for long.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">My wife tells me that I - sorry, <i>we </i>- </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">live in a decrepit one bedroom semi-detached house. The only excitement entering our existence is by the back door<span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span> a brief violent storm, a mouth opening to scream, or a neighbour recalling</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> their time as an FBI agent when they were disguised as fish to catch draft dodgers disguised as wood thrush. </span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our living room wears a weary tragic expression. I look at my wife who is sitting slightly hunched. Her face is contorted and tight with anger. She was beautiful once -<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>a pale complexion, fine full lips and long brown hair. Not now. Her beauty is well spent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">She glares at me. 'I've sent you a text. Read it.' Her voice is unnaturally loud. My strength deserts me as I read the message: I DONT DO STAGNATION! To avoid engaging with my wife I remain silent; my mind a dispassionate organ. I do not mind silence, unless it sighs with impatience, vies for attention, or makes hypocritical remarks. Then it bores the hell out of me. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I leave my wife grumbling to herself and climb up the chimney breast. No forwarding address or contact number is necessary. If she needs me she can ring the police. I calmly climb up the chimney breast. Midway I gaze in bewilderment. A woman wearing a short skirt and stockings is staring at me suspiciously in the semidarkness. We gaze back and forth at each other.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I speak first. 'What ... your name?' My <span style="font-family: inherit;">heartbeat</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">is </span>sha<span style="font-family: inherit;">rp and nervous.&nbsp;</span> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">'<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't expect you to know my name,<span style="font-family: inherit;"> even though we've been <span style="font-family: inherit;">neighbours</span> for seven years.</span></span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Isn't</span> that disheartening and <span style="font-family: inherit;">disorienting</span>?<span style="font-family: inherit;">' After a short pause she says<span style="font-family: inherit;">, 'My name is Angie. </span>I</span> came in here to breathe fresh air and to get away from the <span style="font-family: inherit;">quietness</span> of my home.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>lacks<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>the imagination to understand <i><span style="font-family: inherit;">my </span></i>h<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">uman</span> body <span style="font-family: inherit;">and mind</span>. He</span> keeps himself busy</span> all day without doing anything <span style="font-family: inherit;">that might evoke <span style="font-family: inherit;">spontaneity</span></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;">acuity </span>or craziness. H<span style="font-family: inherit;">e </span>is morally <span style="font-family: inherit;">hygienic </span>except where sweet girls and wom<span style="font-family: inherit;">en are concerned.</span> The charming <span style="font-family: inherit;">creature</span> wants us both<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>to live <span style="font-family: inherit;">out<span style="font-family: inherit;"> our<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span>days</span> like <span style="font-family: inherit;">skeletons. Can you believe it?'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I <span style="font-family: inherit;">don't</span> say a word while she talks. All this confiding of family <span style="font-family: inherit;">circumstances</span> makes me <span style="font-family: inherit;">uncomfortable</span>. She takes makeup<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> out of&nbsp; her bag<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and <span style="font-family: inherit;">dabs</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">powder</span> round her eyes.</span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her wide, dark eyes smile with secret amusement. '</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You don't look like a chimney sweep.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span>I can tell you've been crowned with the mysteries of grip and pleasure.'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Angie's</span> flirtatiousness makes me vulnerable. I<span style="font-family: inherit;">'m</span> mesmerized by </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st">the swell of </span>her<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st">décolletage. 'My husband and I are not young lovers any more. I'm sure you hear our awful fights. Our marriage is floundering, quite badly. I never know where his mouth has been the night before, and vice versa.'&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st">She leans over and kisses me with grace and style. I vibrate with life, time slows down. I remain free of real and imagined comparisons. Without hesitation we slowly make love. It's difficult to explain the genesis and nature of our<i> </i>meeting, passion and parting. I have no idea what she was really thinking or wanting. Could it ha<span style="font-family: inherit;">ve been a successful <span style="font-family: inherit;">exercise</span> of power</span> on her behalf? <span style="font-family: inherit;">Was she a slave to the dreadful torment of destroyed love, <span style="font-family: inherit;">jealousy, or<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">fruitless</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">envy?</span></span>&nbsp; </span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st">When I </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st"><span style="font-family: inherit;">climb down from the chimney breast<span style="font-family: inherit;"> and enter my</span></span> living room the potent scent of bonding, <span style="font-family: inherit;">impetuosity </span>and happiness <span style="font-family: inherit;">disappears</span>. The sense of isolation I feel grows into gradual despair. &nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st">* </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span></b></i>:&nbsp; One source of pleasure for me is looking after my granddaughter, Lily, while my daughter, Emma, goes to work. Sometimes I lie beside Lily (ten months old, now) willing her to sleep, and watch as her eyes open and shut, and finally close. Her fingers fall free from gripping my thumb.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3E0n_eNk6U/UVbIxydeyvI/AAAAAAAACeI/YOUvl2k_NNM/s1600/Lilly.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3E0n_eNk6U/UVbIxydeyvI/AAAAAAAACeI/YOUvl2k_NNM/s200/Lilly.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>Before I silently leave Lily to sleep and dream, I gaze at the graceful little face; her beautiful, soft skin and delicate frame. I realise how fleeting life can be. I softly squeeze her tiny hand like a terrified child. Occasionally, I feel tearful, but am not ashamed. For what is prettier, more significant, more unforgettable, than a rosy-cheeked baby in the throes of slumber.</div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st"></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-86066591145950728222013-11-14T12:53:00.000+00:002016-10-11T21:01:57.173+01:00The Big Bang . . . Almost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oivR8HRMXYo/V7TCYKPL7gI/AAAAAAAAFrs/KAyU_19fO3Y0VWY1p0cEU3WlUYx5un5dQCLcB/s1600/Noel%2BKerns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oivR8HRMXYo/V7TCYKPL7gI/AAAAAAAAFrs/KAyU_19fO3Y0VWY1p0cEU3WlUYx5un5dQCLcB/s400/Noel%2BKerns.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm looking at the sky in clinical fashion.<b> </b>It appears extremely high. I am a small figure and often confused. An article in a science magazine arouses within me a potpourri of wonderment, menacing anxiety, and a&nbsp;sense of extreme lightness. The article states that the entire universe was smooth just after its birth<i> </i>billions of years ago<i>.</i> An extraordinary assertion. Billions of galaxies and billions of stars. Suddenly I feel profoundly inept. Nothing new, I assure you. But how do <i>"</i>they" - the highly cerebral elite - "know"?&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Apparently through light emitted 370,000 light years ago after the Big Bang. I don't recall hearing the explosion but I recollect hearing a neighbour's dog barking. I'm sure the&nbsp;Noise Abatement Society was inundated with calls from individuals&nbsp;suffering from physical and mental distress. How my neighbour's dog fared is anyone's guess. </div><br />I can't decipher if there is a human being or an animal in my home when all the lights are blazing. I usually rely on a well-known technique I've perfected without using measurements of cosmic microwave background radiation. I simply open the front door and shout, 'WHICH ONE OF YOU A******S HAS ALL THE LIGHTS ON WHILE TAKING A BATH!'<br /><br />Armed with CS spray and a stun gun I soar the stairs and head for the bathroom. Before doling out punishment I commonly say, in a relaxed tone, 'Don't take this personally.' Then I'm lost in the heat of the moment. The victim usually falls into a short coma and wears a large hat for a week.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /><div style="text-align: left;">My first day in permanent employment. A man waiting for an elevator on the fourth floor of a beat-up building advises me that he has been standing on the same spot for two years.<br /><br />'They take on anyone here,' he said. 'My boss told me years ago that I didn't seem capable of thinking so he does my thinking for me. What do you think about that?! Eh? You're not paid to think<i>,</i> you're paid to do! I don't know about you but after a while lifeless bodies bore me to hell.' He give me a strange look as he stepped into the empty elevator shaft. His final words? 'Always check the elevator is in the shaftttttttttt!!!' I never got to thank him but damn sound advice. </div>* &nbsp;&nbsp; </div><i><span style="color: orange;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflection:</span> </b></span></span></i>Yesterday I went out for a walk to stretch my legs. I returned home two feet taller.Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-72159439842998160922013-10-23T17:03:00.000+01:002016-08-17T17:34:46.465+01:00Don't Worry About Things You Will Never Know<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gRqJBNRjLn0/UpPyHYrGHDI/AAAAAAAACu8/xhY5rVDV9NA/s1600/jackson-pollock1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gRqJBNRjLn0/UpPyHYrGHDI/AAAAAAAACu8/xhY5rVDV9NA/s400/jackson-pollock1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VIavStkXdrQ/Sme-AQ3pKGI/AAAAAAAAANU/QAIE06YtOJo/s1600-h/potbelly.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>In 1492 Christoper Columbus landed in the Caribbean mistaking it for India.<b> </b>As proof of his discovery he returned with a chicken masala meal for one, a singing snake, and a ventriloquist named Americo. The Europeans became obsessed with discovering civilisations, places, and practices in existence for thousands of years. They became fond of sailing, and the 'World Cruise' was born.<br /><br />Although agriculture had been practiced in central and southern America for thousands of years, the Europeans showed the indigenous peoples how to make more food than they could eat. And also how to make a profit. The Europeans soon discovered that guns and swords were unnecessary to control the population. Smallpox, measles, and the flu were faster and didn't involve night raids. Silver from the mines was a driving motive of Spanish colonization. It helped that the <span class="st">Spanish </span>Conquistadors had an unpronounceable name and looked like Cubans.<br /><br />The slave trade proved a valuable lesson to the Portuguese, British, French, Spanish, and Dutch. While exploiting the silver mines, and agricultural plantations, the Europeans discovered an important working practice. It was more cost effective to work people to death, and replace them, than to improve their working conditions. This 'principle' is advocated '<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltun92DfnPY" target="_blank">to this day</a></span>' in some management and leadership books, organisations, companies, human resource departments and military dictatorships around the globe. And, despairingly, in some families and schools.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* </div><div style="text-align: left;">I know - <i>I think I know </i>- about dinosaurs despite never having met one (not while sober, anyway). I suppose it's just information passed from generation to generation. In the West we tend to accrue a vast amount of knowledge about abstract words, for example, truth, justice, freedom, reality, and to worry about things we shall never know, no matter how hard we look, or by seeking the advice and knowledge of others.</div><br />People from different cultures think about things differently, and perhaps that is the way the world has existed, and shall continue to do so. Who has the right to say the worldview of an individual, or a culture, is wrong if it does not intrude in the lives of others causing physical, mental, or spiritual harm?<br /><br />Perhaps we should just enjoy life as it happens - each second - and try to shelve all worry, concern, and beliefs we have no control over, which may, paradoxically, control our lives to the detriment of our well-being. The solution sounds simple, but remains difficult to put into action. A human fallibility, but strong and destructive, nevertheless.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* </div><i><b><span style="color: yellow;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span></span></b></i>: The office environment in the 21st century is a time bomb: full of testosterone and estrogen, and rats if it's an old building. The rise of working singles working round the clock, and those working near a clock, has turned some offices into 'Singles Bars' with bouncers on the door, and the water consumed during 'Happy Hour' is charged to your credit card. <br /><br />And let's not forget those who are in a relationship and suffer 'transient global amnesia' for five minutes while having sex with their secretary. This can be particularly disquieting when it happens during a board meeting, especially for fellow board members. Where I once worked a monthly lottery was held to guess who the CEO's next conquest might be. One list included females, males, and a coffee vending machine on the 2nd floor.Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-24769923745616595082013-08-05T16:53:00.000+01:002016-08-17T19:14:04.688+01:00Tell Me The Truth About Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXh0gZAbsCM/UefMahEnVJI/AAAAAAAACnI/usdFxZGvZK4/s400/vladimirvolegov_20600_477.jpg" width="400" /></div><br /></div>I remember we had passed each other during the interval. After that moment I never grew tired of looking at her. We shared a love of the theatre, classical music, literature and poetry, and an enduring interest in writers and writing. Following the performance of Mahler’s Fifth we met at the embankment, and talked and laughed as the lights of the city danced breathlessly on the river.<br /><br />When she smiled with her lips slightly parted I thought that any woman would be envious of her. She wore a black dress and her mass of wavy black hair tied up. Her beauty was indescribable. She exuded a social and cultural confidence to which I felt I could never aspire. We said nothing about our past, or present, relationships. <br /><br />I adore Mahler,’ smiled Kirsten. ‘I feel I’ve been on an epic journey ... His obsession with death is evident, even to me. Then the triumph, the wonderful pinnacle of the final movement.’ Her gaze transferred to the boats dancing in rhythm on the water. ‘He was obviously passionately in love. What about you? Have you been in love?’ She scrutinised my face with amused tolerance and satisfaction. 'Answer me,' she said, delicately touching my hand.<br /><br />The night was warm, and a soft, impatient wind blew across the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="h"></a>greyish blue river. 'I prefer to say hello than goodbye. Hello radiates an air of anticipation, the beginning of something either funny or tragic.' Already I felt a deep affection for Kirsten, bordering on attraction. <br /><br />'You still haven’t answered my question.’ She playfully poked my ribcage. <br /><br />I looked at her, and smiled. ‘Tell me the truth about love ...’<br /><br />‘When it comes will it come without warning, just as I'm picking my nose?’ Kirsten recited, her voice breathy and passionate.<br /><br />‘Would you care to go for a walk, something to eat?' I said. 'French? Covent Garden?'<br /><br />As we walked across the Millennium Bridge our hands accidentally touched. Kirsten smiled and kissed me on the mouth. I felt my heart rise. Then she turned away to look at the light in the stars. I noticed a suggestion of sadness in her eyes. Kirsten laughed softly and breathed in the night air. 'What an engaging night. Let's make it a memorable one.' Her voice was clear and winsome.<br /><br />She leaned towards me and grabbed my hand. Her smile, like the destined light of day, became a laugh. Kirsten half closed her eyes and slightly tilted her head to let the tender trembling wind caress her eyelids. Her softened eyes still revealed a hint of sadness.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </div>‘Why New York?’ asked Kirsten.<br /><br />‘That’s what it’s called.’ <br /><br />‘Very funny. Are you travelling with anyone else?’ asked the prettiest woman in the restaurant. <br /><br />‘Hopefully the pilot.’ <br /><br />‘How long will you be gone? I’m already missing your acerbic wit.’ <br /><br />‘Hard to say. I’ve been east. I believe it's time to go west. In fact, that reminds me. I'm booked in for a bikini wax tomorrow morning.’ We continued to eat and converse, attracting disgruntled glances from fellow diners'.<br /><br />Once outside the restaurant we became insensitive to the surroundings. We kissed like two lovers in sensuous harmony and balance; as if we existed outside of time, outside of monotonous existence, outside of ordinary life.<br /><br />As Kirsten sat in the taxi, she held out her hand. I briefly kissed the fingers of her right hand. Her engaging face was calm. 'Goodbye, and thank you,' she said. As the taxi drove off I still felt warm and sensual. As if I was part of some secret, beautiful and distant world.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i>Reflections: </i></span></b>Beauty and love are inexpressible and ephemeral. Your heart may rise as you recall a romantic encounter, a kiss, a chance meeting, a pleasure in your life; but it is just a memory.&nbsp;One should not live with illusions of happiness, love, or, beauty, as one gets older. For there are only moments of anticipation, passion, and desire, that fill one's life.&nbsp;Only surprising and beautiful moments.<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i><br /></i></span></b>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-44226371974115871772013-05-15T18:45:00.000+01:002015-11-06T21:39:37.373+00:00Groundhog Day at the HR Department <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HS9Kyap5YHo/UOMqrO1GDeI/AAAAAAAACQg/ShTeY3sAc7c/s1600/newyorker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HS9Kyap5YHo/UOMqrO1GDeI/AAAAAAAACQg/ShTeY3sAc7c/s320/newyorker.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>T</i><span class="st"><i>he inner sanctum of the HR Department. The midday sun beats through the windows and lights on two individuals. </i></span><br /><br />'Peter, you're great.'<br /><br />'And so are you, Selina.'<br /><br />'Not as great as you, Peter.'<br /><br />'You're still great, Selina.'<br /><br />'Do you think so? You're not just saying I'm great because I always say you're great?'<br /><br />'I mean it. You're great.'<br /><br />'That's great. Here's Mary. Mary, you look great.'<br /><br />'Well, thank you. You both look great.'<br /><br />'Not as great as you, Mary.' <br /><br />'Do you think so? You're not just saying I look great because I always say you both look great?'<br /><br />'No. You look, and are, great, Mary.'<br /><br />'That's great. Here's Maureen. Maureen, you look great.'<br /><br />'Do you think so? You're not all agreeing I look great because I always say you three always look great?'<br /><br />'No. You look, and are, great.'<br /><br />'Never complain if someone says you look, and are, great.'<br /><br />'Maureen, that's why you're so great.'<br /><br />'And never confide in those who are greater than you are. That way one can't be improved or corrected. Heaven forbid, if one's greatness was to be judged and found wanting.'<br /><br />'Maureen, you are indeed great. Isn't it wonderful that matters like the prolonged economic downturn, restructuring, organisational changes, job insecurity and cuts, planned redundancies, stress, never impact on our "divine" department?'<br /><br />'Indeed, Selina. That's precisely why Peter is so great. He has a double face. He is supremely vain. He never speaks without boasting. He recognizes inferiority. He considers himself more intelligent than anyone else. He never hesitates to perform the 'dirty work.' When Board Members, managers, staff, union representatives, ask awkward questions Peter never gives a straight answer. That's why Peter is so great.'<br /><br />'Oh, Peter, you're excruciatingly great. Shall we all go to the works canteen for lunch?'<br /><br />'I confess to feeling ill at ease eating close to staff whose jobs are on the line. Let's go somewhere decadently extravagant. After all, we have the money and job security even if 'major reforms' are implemented in the near future. How many people can say that in this day and age?'<br /><br />'Oh, Peter, you really are so, <i>so</i>,<i> </i>great.'<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*&nbsp; <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st"><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections</span></i></b></span></span>: One day, while surreptitiously taping a meeting at work (later transcribed into my diary<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">*</span></b>), I began to count the number of hairs on my head. I lost count at 82,469 when one hair fell on the floor. I had to start from scratch. It's a widely held belief in scientific circles that if a person is in possession of a full head of hair they should have approximately 100,000 hairs. My mind began to race:<br /><ol><li>If I pull one hair a day from my head I should be completely bald in about 270 years. Who will continue the process after I am cremated?</li><li>I have another 99,999 single hairs to pull out. What if I don't suit being partially, or totally, bald?</li><li>Could I sell my hair on eBay? Is there a market for single hairs, or must I have a heap? </li><li>What constitutes a heap?</li></ol><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>&nbsp;*</b>Appearance does not deceive the watchful observer. Neither do words nor reputation. </span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-13947027769774653822013-04-21T06:17:00.000+01:002017-11-01T02:56:14.942+00:00The Unwavering Sound of Invisible Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gLH1RwRhVF0/V8GBjeMSk5I/AAAAAAAAFvI/bSSkZsYyChofOYqfYrdQN-TFS2udBIKwQCLcB/s1600/Invisible%2Bthings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gLH1RwRhVF0/V8GBjeMSk5I/AAAAAAAAFvI/bSSkZsYyChofOYqfYrdQN-TFS2udBIKwQCLcB/s400/Invisible%2Bthings.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>Warm feet and socks, sweaty brow, half-opened soft mouth, dummy hanging on for dear life. Pale light glistens on slabbers, above and below. The trembling dummy falls. Pali! Pali! Not yet, poor dear. Have faith: a lie long known to be true. Where's nanny? God knows you love her for the right reasons. Your daddy's a strange one. Let him cast the first stone.<br /><br />Forget time and listen for sound, faint or loud. A bin is moving rubbish, speckling and confident like orange tea in a swimming pool. Does no one hear it? Not the sleeper, the cow's milktaker. A small sharp cry, a change in position. Not yet awake, nor any intention of doing so. Lying still upon the knee. <br /><br />First cause, second cause, third cause . . . Pali! Pali! Not yet. Have faith. The tide is out. Will it come back? She scratches her head though still asleep, muffled and huddled. Silence no longer hidden by a pillow, a blanket, a healthy appetite for a doze. Flaxen hair, rosy cheeks, pumping heart, still rhythms. Still in life, still in death. A soft sigh, wipe of the eye, change in position. Fourth cause, fifth cause, sixth cause . . . Pali! Pali! Forget time, listen to the unwavering sound of invisible things.<br /><br />Warm milk and bobo aids sleep upon the knee. Change of position, the sleeper oblivious, possibly dreaming. The young body centre stage. The old body stretched out, mouth open, transformed. Upon the knee, the cow's milktaker. Warm feet and socks, sweaty brow, half-opened soft mouth, dummy hanging on for dear life. Where's nanny? A jailer bound to a prisoner. Has it crossed her mind?<br /><br />Feet swing from a warm bed. Flushed face, mouth dripping, eyes blank. Restless steps on stairs, faint then still. Wide-eyed. A funereal cry. Face bereft of a groan, a giggle. Fluster flanks the unwavering sound of invisible things. The cow's milktaker murmurs strange, sleepy sounds. The old body is stretched out, mouth open, cut off from the world.&nbsp;Where's nanny? Forget time, lie still upon the knee. The chill night will come soon enough.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflection:&nbsp; </span></i></b>Similar to love and friendship, health is fragile and complex. One can protect, but not influence the outcome.Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-50199882645964300962013-03-16T13:50:00.000+00:002016-05-27T00:45:49.649+01:00The Sex Appeal of Victorian Furniture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DagzLotr7kc/UZlEufgJTOI/AAAAAAAACh0/wwV7TXZUvKk/s1600/leg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DagzLotr7kc/UZlEufgJTOI/AAAAAAAACh0/wwV7TXZUvKk/s400/leg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This afternoon I dropped off to sleep on the living room floor while absorbed in writing an enlightening entry in my diary. I'm damned if I can remember what it was. I believe it may have constituted throwing photographs of my wife on the fire. An activity, I confess, which makes me smile with great pleasure and satisfaction. My wife (unknown to me) was pacing to and fro, closely watching, her soul in torment, flinging her arms in the air, madly chanting, 'People with lively minds! Little tin gods, each and every one!' </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I woke up in the presence of something that wasn't there when I fell asleep. I couldn't touch my left leg below the knee. In fact, I couldn't see it. I'm heavily encased in a partition wall constructed while I slept. Suddenly my life has become absurdly difficult. I need to use the bathroom and the culprit of this inextricable deed (my soon to be <i>ex-wife)</i> has vanished from the house like a comet on some passionate adventure with a <i>femme fatale</i>.<i> </i>The only things my wife and I had in common were sharing the same mistress and a predilection for sitting in farmhouse kitchens sniffing the feral scent of stray cats. <br /><br />In the semidarkness of the living room I hear imagined sounds and see imagined sights. Try as I may to hold my water, I can not any longer. The only consolation is that my 'little' indiscretion is not exposed to public gaze. Anyway, I've been shocked into taking stock of my life and making a fresh start. First, I require to get out from under this wall, find a change of clothing and get a cab to the heady life of town. I've no desire to become immortal, nor empty of desire or sin. Not yet, anyway.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /><div style="text-align: left;">My cousin, Charles Wanda Medull, has a natural distrust of the past, houses and possessions. He always seems to have something concealed: usually his wallet. All his life he has longed for risk, destitution and to understand the sex appeal of Victorian furniture.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Charles is entangled in a tormenting love affair with a chicken leg. I advised Charles that he can never love a chicken leg absolutely. Nor can he leave <i>his </i>world for the chicken leg's world, especially in the midst of the current "<span class="st">horse meat scandal" in Europe. His disastrous inability to heed my warning played right into the hands of the authorities.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span class="st">Last month, </span>Charles (who lives inside a pantomime horse) was arrested for impersonating a chicken. His honeyed protestations made him appear a sadder, sillier and smaller figure. An image not dissimilar to that of a hen.<br /><br />C.W. writes to me from his prison cell but makes no mention of his love affair with the chicken leg. His letters, however, are layered with wit, elegance, intelligence, just a little bitterness, and a smidgen of horseradish cream sauce. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections:</span></b></i> It is well we cannot foresee the future. This distance and alienation keeps our hearts and minds an impotent distance from formidable defeat and despair. As we take delight in beautiful experiences, and passionate adventures, life with its motive force can deal blows of all shapes and sizes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My seven-year-old granddaughter, Aimee, has been hospitalised with a viral infection. It is heartbreaking to see Aimee in such distress. She is slowly regaining her spirit and cult for funny, 'brilliant' things. Her humour remains infectious. For that I am thankful.<br /><br />Aimee will change in value as time passes like all interesting people do.</div></div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-82566826368727222142013-02-14T00:18:00.000+00:002018-03-16T19:53:39.713+00:00The Illusionary World of the Professional Politician (PP)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4XAKGnsMggU/UVB3WUFnrEI/AAAAAAAACd4/riX4ttOaFXc/s1600/olegshuplyakillusionpaintings1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4XAKGnsMggU/UVB3WUFnrEI/AAAAAAAACd4/riX4ttOaFXc/s400/olegshuplyakillusionpaintings1.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>'He knows nothing; and he thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career.' <br />― <i>George Bernard Shaw </i></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Imagine that a group of friends or lovers or, heaven forbid, relatives arrive at your home unannounced. Do you welcome them with a lie, or tell the truth? "Frankly, I'm tired and exhausted, and each and every one of you love and hate yourselves, and each other, with equal veracity. You dishonour and threaten the rest of society with your insincerity, cynicism, virtuous morality and false judgments."</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mind you, I could be talking about professional politicians (PPs). They do tend to speak unnaturally, and make fools of themselves with their endless meaningless speeches and rabbit-hole opinions, which I find imperceptible, and avoid at all cost. Their eternal scrambling for status, one-upmanship and hierarchy comes at the cost of gaining an enlarged sallow or salmon coloured face. Furthermore, they grow capacious emotional armpits which can, if permitted, shower each living creature within a hundred metres with dark tepid perspiration: 'water' and 'excreta' to you and me. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">When PPs are not being driven to God-knows-where (in a vehicle with tinted windows which gives the 'deluded occupant' time to practice the art of the sudden teardrop) I have, on occasion, seen the odd PP dreamily flying past on a bicycle. When it happens, however, as one is seated at the bedside of an ailing relative one tends to feel distressed, even shocked, at the state of democratic socialism. It means cracks are starting to show. And growing bigger by the day, I might add. And by night, for all I know. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">I condemn and absolve no one. You see - well, I hope you see - most PPs (when not engaged in fiddling their expenses, strolling on Clapham Common looking for badgers in the middle of the night, wearing gimp masks to house parties, junketeering at public expense, head-butting fellow PPs, conducting 'drunken brawls' over interns) are transfixed by human torment: usually their own. Don't be surprised if the following attributes remind you of some people who 'spend their time' in government departments or the legal professions ... in short, within the dazzling diversity of delicate society.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Do you believe no person exists in this world as talented as you? Have you an insatiable desire for praise and recognition? Have you an irresistible urge to judge others? Can you notice a person's one weakness and forget their many strengths? Do you enjoy rushing your opponents: putting them under pressure to affect their judgment? Are you devoted to endless meetings? Television and radio interviews? Press conferences and photo ops? Have you perpetrated or sanctioned: intimidation, bribery, burglary, oppressive surveillance, kidnapping, interrogation, torture, severe hunger or starvation, death threats, assassinations, killing or murder? Does your blinkered ideological cocktail contain a litany of nonsensical beliefs? Are you prone to verbosity when you are alone? Are you unable to resist the temptation to flatter? to gossip? to pontificate? to browbeat? to upstage others? to lie under oath? Are <i>you </i>...? Is your life a fraud? </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">An intriguing, but manageable list, you'll<i> </i>agree. Whether the election laws are democratic or undemocratic you may have the attributes required of a professional politician. A day may come, however, when you are unable to stand the 'meat grinder' no longer: the lies; the jibes; the false accusations; the feigned smiles and handshakes; the doctored speeches. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, a day may come when you may open yourself to 'substantiated' accusations. The abrupt leap from academic achievements, political and diplomatic successes, to a hoarse shout from behind prison bars may seem austere, but apt. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Some professional politicians believe they are above the law. They're wrong. This comforting illusion which they create, and in which they exist, can vanish as swift as it has begun.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">(2013)</span></span></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-8996874382749521302013-01-02T00:27:00.000+00:002016-03-04T00:53:39.475+00:00Fidelity, Infidelity and Soupe à l'Oignon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_tYm7c3guzQ/VjvX6FM09uI/AAAAAAAAFLE/di_DveT9jvg/s1600/Peder-2BBalke-2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_tYm7c3guzQ/VjvX6FM09uI/AAAAAAAAFLE/di_DveT9jvg/s400/Peder-2BBalke-2B4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The woman approaching me looks barely thirty. Her beauty shows no sign of vulnerability. Indeed, her persona of radiance and happiness exudes a bold piercing intelligence. I decide to play along. She is tremendously elegant and dressed in a <span id="picked_color">grey melange trouser suit.</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span id="picked_color"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span id="picked_color">'Have you heard about the Dead Sea?' she enquires, gently stroking her auburn hair which softly drops to a fringe on to her forehead and sparkling brown eyes.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span id="picked_color"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span id="picked_color">'Heard about it, I went to the funeral.'</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span id="picked_color">The sales </span><span id="picked_color"><span class="st">representative</span> smiles, half closing her eyes. She starts to talk about nail care and produces a </span>Dead Sea Nail Buffer. When she asks me to hold out my left hand I willingly <span class="st">comply</span>. As she holds my left wrist and concentrates on my thumb nail we talk and laugh. I study how she moves, smiles and converses to capture another buyer for 'that perfect nail care collection.'</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'How does that feel?' she asks.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'I have entered a<span class="st"> </span>painless and distant land. My thumb nail feels and looks healthier. As for the rest of my body ... Well, I believe that's best kept secret.'</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She produces a second product from the collection. A body lotion.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'This is Ocean Mist.'</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'Atlantic or Pacific?'</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">'Are you a comedian?'</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I leave the shopping mall more invigorated and cheerful than when I entered. Did I buy anything? No. And, yes, my left thumb nail looks quite appealing. It even glows in the dark.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* </div></div>This morning I finished my script for a film called <i>The Story of a Shipwrecked Carrot.</i> I plan to shoot the film next spring inside a french-horn which speaks fourteen languages. Like many hyperpolyglots the french-horn is male and left handed. Despairingly, the french-horn can't speak French without sounding like a wheezy car engine.<br /><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">If I can't raise the money to shoot the film I'll be forced to 'kill it' by other means. If only Van Gogh were still around with his razor. I could arrange an argument between Van Gogh and 'the script', and let the quarrel take its mortal course. What will I tell the vegetables if the project is put on hold? My own money would run out in a week. The film is about fidelity, infidelity and&nbsp;Soupe à l'Oignon. The relationships of the vegetables are a major part of the story. In fact, a lascivious carrot has a leading role.</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />I'll come straight to the point. The lascivious carrot has an appetite for vegetables of all kinds. The swollen-headed carrot enjoys getting drunk, dancing the cancan and delights in attracting the attention of female vegetables. A certain cast member, Chanterelle Mushroom, will drive the carrot to distraction. No one in their 'right mind' could resist Chanterelle's frilly trumpet shape and uninhibited sensuality.&nbsp;</div><div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div>I'm composing a letter to Chanterelle of sentimental nature. However, efforts to portray myself as witty, lucid and intelligent only serve to expose my irrefutable faults. Principally, that my writing is dull and turgid, and of uncertain tone. This similarity to my film script would only worry an artist born with genuine talent.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;*</div></div><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflection</span></b>:<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">&nbsp; </span></b></i>Today I painted four houses (exteriors &amp; interiors) and put up some wallpaper. The owners' don't know yet.</div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-71311603498311014332012-12-23T22:44:00.000+00:002014-03-02T00:05:11.259+00:00Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas & Happy New Year in 2012/13<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zl8Ku6k5ksg/UNd_a3_vY6I/AAAAAAAACM8/d2G9IV5aQKc/s1600/Maerry+Christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zl8Ku6k5ksg/UNd_a3_vY6I/AAAAAAAACM8/d2G9IV5aQKc/s400/Maerry+Christmas.jpg" height="313" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">With gratitude I wish to thank those people who visit this site. Sometimes I write in a sketchy abstract form, which I do not profess to understand myself. My hands may tremble as I write and type, but they are innocent. As innocent as my most mysterious thoughts.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish you, and your families, a life that evokes admiration and emotion in each person you meet. And that your days are rich in beauty, vigor, and filled with delightful moments of astonishment. Moments that linger in the memory, make you happy, and glad to be alive.&nbsp; </div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-15602536898352627542012-12-20T14:20:00.001+00:002016-08-17T19:28:39.676+01:00Cardboard British Police Plan Strike<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Oo6IWqde7RY/V7Sso0KXlNI/AAAAAAAAFqk/v9DWbVjXOFkvEmbQvRCw6Vo-L8qiESSMwCLcB/s1600/police%2Bbike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Oo6IWqde7RY/V7Sso0KXlNI/AAAAAAAAFqk/v9DWbVjXOFkvEmbQvRCw6Vo-L8qiESSMwCLcB/s400/police%2Bbike.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>Cardboard British Police have announced their forces may go on strike during the Christmas and New Year period. Pulp Carton, a Cardboard British Police spokesman, said: "Cardboard police are forced to work 24/7 with no pay or allowances for unsocial or irregular hours. It doesn't help that the government said that savings must be made through the disposal and recycling of over 85% of cardboard police officers, cardboard police motorbikes, cardboard police cars, cardboard police dogs and cardboard Police Stations in the next financial year [2013/2014].&nbsp; <br /><br />"It's disgraceful that Cardboard police do not qualify for paid leave, training, promotion, a pension, public holidays, maternity leave, maternity pay, parental leave, or statutory sick pay. Unbelievably, they are not entitled to rest or toilet breaks. Even during the winter cardboard police cars and motorbikes are not provided with anti-freeze, windshield washer fluid, petrol, or 'tangible' <span class="st">lights and indicators."</span><br /><br /><span class="st">Attempts were made to </span>ballot Cardboard Police on whether they want to strike for full industrial rights and equality. However, given that 'Cardboard Officers' are unable to see, to read, to write, to talk, to listen, to remember, to experience emotions, to identify activities involving bullying, dishonesty, deception and criminal activity, or engage in intelligent receptivity, is causing great distress and tension for their families, friends and supporters. <br /><br />Talks are currently taking place between <span id="ctl00_body_spnDetail">the Cardboard British Police Federation, </span>cardboard union officials and cardboard government officials ahead of strike action planned to start on Monday, December 24, 2012. It's believed that one major sticking point is that cardboard police officers do not have powers of arrest.<br /><br />A recent public opinion survey has confirmed that the public find 'cardboard' police officers more approachable than 'real' police officers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div>This afternoon I sent an email to a dear friend in Oxford, England.<br /><br /><i> I've fallen in love again. This time with a human being. She's beauty personified, wealthy, and fluent in German. I know what you're thinking? I can't speak German. But I'm besotted! I know! I know! Even when the sun shines at its brightest, the rain runs down her face, and her voice is sometimes lofty. I've made an appointment with a doctor to diagnose her condition. However, believe me, she is like no other. She's teaching me to 'Goose-Step' to 'Achy Breaky Heart'. I know this may sound simply-minded, however, every time I mention Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit she gets hot under the collar. Any ideas?</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*&nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Reflections:<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></b></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I feel a sense of sadness and despair for those who surmise the need to look down on others through an injudicious sense of superiority. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some workplaces are populated with so many bullies, pimps and <span style="font-family: inherit;">t</span>hieves<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>it's hard to breathe air that has </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">clean hands and a</span></span> clear conscience. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't be surprised if a </span>figure of authority turns out to be more crooked and immoral than anyone he, or she, condemns. They may deny the charge, and show a double face. Someday, however, they will be held to account for their violation of the truth and fundamental ethical principles. </span></div></div></div></div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-18871115319589187012012-11-19T16:45:00.000+00:002017-03-28T20:44:28.860+01:00Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: I Look Weird From All Angles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vk0FqhcI7DI/WNq6j9Afr3I/AAAAAAAAGDk/QZFnriU8W74ENFioAyxlmyr96Ol26dcOwCLcB/s1600/mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vk0FqhcI7DI/WNq6j9Afr3I/AAAAAAAAGDk/QZFnriU8W74ENFioAyxlmyr96Ol26dcOwCLcB/s400/mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>I admit to being socially maladroit. The last time I shook a person's hand it belonged to my wife Ingrid at our wedding in a <span class="st">Bleecker Street<i> </i>playground.</span> When she chirped, 'There's nothing in the world <i>we </i>can't do if <i>we </i>stay together' I felt the onset of a migraine attack. Suddenly Ingrid looked different; her facial features began to blur; she looked almost feminine. She raced about the playground like a crazed weasel, 'My whole body is tingling! Let's stay up all night, every night, until we evaporate!'&nbsp;</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Her mania drove me to Distraction: a small town on the upper floor of a shopping mall in North Carolina. When my mind seemed clear I changed my name to Olive Pickle, and walked the streets 'trying to be, rather than to seem<i>.</i>' Occasionally I shouted at gulls circling overhead, 'Slow Down! For God's sake, slow down!' Two birds landed on my shoulders, pecked at my <span class="st">fake toupee, and screamed for food.</span> I've barely slept since it happened.<br /><br />My 'unsound sanity' is still intact, at least. Ingrid? Probably guzzling her way through a large box of <span class="st">chocolate éclairs in South America. However, I realise she may be in the </span><span class="st"><span class="st">Far East </span>meditating on the memory of her youth with envious suffering, while checking a restaurant bill she can ill afford to pay.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="st">* </span></div>My current girlfriend Lorna is preoccupied with her body. She continually 'undresses and dresses' when the mood strikes. Whether it's in a private or public location is immaterial. Indeed, Lorna has <span class="queryn" id="queryn">perpetrated</span> the performance in front of work colleagues at <span class="st">CIA headquarters. I see nothing inherently wrong in such </span><span class="st"><span class="st">behaviour</span>, but when it's a guy at the deli?! ... well, the curiosity value tends to fade rather fast, like making love without enriching either your own or your lover's existence. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span class="st">Nothing alters the fact that Lorna hasn't a clue where the CIA building is located. Each morning she is</span><span class="st"><span class="st"> bundled </span></span><span class="st"><span class="st"><span class="st"> into the trunk of an automobile </span>by a man wearing a black turtleneck, and a white baseball cap which covers a wart on his left buttock. She is then driven to a </span>bedsit in Cuba and is dropped down a large isolated tunnel by way of Jay Leno's chin.&nbsp; &nbsp; </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="st">Lorna's grandmother, </span><span class="st"><span class="st">Tallulah Methadone, </span> worked in the </span>CIA K-9 Corps. Tallulah left when her human partner, Officer Bonio Bowser, had an affair with her younger sister, Gabby (a black&nbsp;Labrador from Las Vegas), whom Bonio wished to marry and raise a family.&nbsp; </div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections: </span></b></i>Lorna considers the left side of her face to be 'less attractive' than the right side. She favours the right side: less wrinkles, softer lips and the skin is less tense. Whenever we dine Lorna insists on sitting with the left side of her face towards a partition.<br /><br />This preoccupation with the 'least attractive' side of her face extents to walking, travelling in cars, trains and aircraft, and chewing gum for a couple of minutes then sticking the gum in her left ear. I don't share Lorna's dilemma. I'm acutely ugly, and each time I blink in the bathroom mirror it confirms I look bad from all angles. </div></div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-14357488857048446302012-10-23T23:39:00.000+01:002017-03-28T18:25:46.379+01:00Girl Talk: Aimee and Lily Kerrigan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jEBxPxVVSx8/UFywsjeRLII/AAAAAAAACBE/I0-xdex8OI8/s1600/DSCF1012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jEBxPxVVSx8/UFywsjeRLII/AAAAAAAACBE/I0-xdex8OI8/s400/DSCF1012.JPG" width="281" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ea9999;"><i>Lily Kerrigan was born on June 22, 2012 to my daughter, Emma Kerrigan</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I was one week old I thought I had lots of mothers too. You <i>only </i>have one.<i> </i>Anyway, where was I? I know. My name is Aimee, I'm a girl. Your name is Lily and you're a <i>baby </i>girl.<i> </i>Girls develop in all sorts of ways faster than boys.<i> </i>Don't ask me how, or why? I just know.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Everyone seems to talk to babies in high-pitched voices and shake noisy rattles and toys in our faces. Just play along with them, smile and raise your eyebrows. Then there's tickling our toes and playing 'This Little Piggy.' Look happy and put on a brave face. <br /><br />I don't remember nodding my head as much as you do? Your face expressions make me giggle. One minute you're smiling, then frowning, then surprised, or wide-eyed and a bit frightened. You don't like loud noises, that's for sure. I like watching you smile when you're asleep.What can you be thinking about? Probably your mummy, milk, and beautiful lights and sounds. I do hope they are happy thoughts.<br /><br />Sometimes you can be quite noisy. No one knows if you're stomach is full of bubbles, if you're teething, hungry, or just plain grumpy? When I don't get my proper sleep, or someone wakes me up, I get really grumpy.<br /><br />My favourite colour is pink and you're covered from head to toe in it except for those big white booties. You can't wear those to school! Everyone will laugh. I can tell you will be a sensible girl. I've lovely blonde hair and I'm pretty. Everybody tells me so. And you're beautiful too, even if your hair is a different colour to mine. I can't see you needing a haircut for a while, but I want to be there when it happens.<br /><br />I love nursing babies, especially you. I'd like a baby girl when I grow up. I'll buy her lots of dolls, teddies and soft toys. I've lots of cuddly toys that I like to snuggle and rock to sleep. The trouble is I've run out of names. You're tiny nails are sharp. I'm going to ask your mum to cut them or buy you a pair of mittens. They'll be pink, of course.&nbsp; <br /><br />Did I tell you that boys are disgusting? They like getting muddy, bite their nails and pick their nose and eat it. They also get nose bleeds if they climb up trees. Most boys are really cheeky and don't know good from bad. Horrible boys. Except for my brother, Joshua, of course. Though he does have his moments. Just treat all boys as half-wits and silly billies. &nbsp; <br /><br />I know lots of words. I expect you'll soon say your first word. Probably something like 'Mama,' 'Dada' or 'Ba Ba' like in 'Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.' Whatever that's all about? A disaster down a lane, I think. At the minute you tend to 'coo' and stare at everything with your beautiful big blue eyes. Remember to cry to get attention and tilt your head when you really want something. It's a girl thing, but some boys try all manner of tricks to get attention too.<br /><br />Did you know you were born under water? Was the water nice and warm? Nanny says that babies born in water are calm and cry less than babies born in air. That sounds just like you, Lily. Calm, happy and clever. In fact, that sounds just like me, too. I'll sing you my "favourite" song. I'm going to be a singer and a dancer when I grow up. Maybe you, me and Becky will start a girl band. We'll call ourselves . . . Let's see . . . 'Sparkles'! Now listen and watch me singing. And try to remember the words.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Reflections: </span></b></i>Lily Kerrigan was born in a birthing pool at the Ulster Hospital, Dundonald, two days after the funeral of my father,&nbsp;Robert John Kerrigan.<i> </i>I wish to thank my wife, Sylvia; sons, Richard and Philip; and daughter, Emma; for their love, understanding, support and steadfast compassion.<br /><br />My heart has been warmed by Lily, Aimee, and Rebekah (Becky), who, with heartbreaking simplicity, bring an emotional charge of light and joy to my life.<br /><br />I am deeply grateful to Bobby Weatherhead, a special friend, for his thoughtfulness, benevolence and valuable wisdom in a time of unforgettable grief, amid the emotionally charged arrival of&nbsp;a 'new life' into this world.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2586290535785462761.post-90860801270742433612012-10-16T23:01:00.000+01:002018-03-16T19:55:07.725+00:00Writing with Courage, Truth and Integrity: The Bravery and Determination of Malala Yousafzai<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hnbdIyq3Dyw/V7Swnqd557I/AAAAAAAAFq0/-rKj9jNLC2Yrc5JpYhNHMWzMx99MVTFAACLcB/s1600/MalalaYousafzai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hnbdIyq3Dyw/V7Swnqd557I/AAAAAAAAFq0/-rKj9jNLC2Yrc5JpYhNHMWzMx99MVTFAACLcB/s400/MalalaYousafzai.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes for a writer to resonate in modern culture the narrative requires courage, truth and integrity; a commitment to freedom and justice. Many writers, bloggers and journalists throughout the world have been murdered, or brutally beaten, because they wrote about crime, corruption and the right to freedom of expression.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">What about the acts of suffering and violence occurring in the world at this moment orchestrated by those in power and in control of information, knowledge and the media? What is their agenda? One of their many objectives is to distort the truth about those who do not have power.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">I greatly admire the bravery and determination of<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> <a href="http://thelede.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/10/09/my-small-video-star-fights-for-her-life/" target="_blank">Malala Yousafzai</a></span>, the 14-year-old schoolgirl, who committed no crime, but was shot at point-blank range in the head by a Taliban gunman for her campaign for girls' education in Pakistan and for speaking out against 'Taliban oppression'. I hope she makes a full recovery. Given the extent of her injuries, however, it will be a long, complex and tortuous journey. I hope that the 'Taliban cowards' who ordered, planned, and carried out the attempted murder of Malala, are caught and receive sentences befitting their crime. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Writing with conviction and truth is not without danger. Sometimes police and employees of local administrations are implicated in the attacks on writers, bloggers and journalists.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">No police force in the world is above the law. Any alleged acts of corruption, racism, torture, incompetence, indifference and collusion must be investigated, and individuals arrested and brought before a court, where necessary. People must be convicted for the crimes they commit on writers, irrespective of the perpetrator's position in society.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">It follows that this should apply with respect to all violence wherever it is perpetrated on this earth. No one should remain unpunished for senseless acts of violence no matter how deluded their motives may be: patriotism; loyalty; nationalism; religion; economic and political power; money; drugs; greed.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">We live in society. But to say we all live in communities gives a sense of false security. This not only stretches an acknowledgment of reality, but demeans the law and the life and memory of those people who have been murdered. Meanwhile their attackers bask in freedom, go unpunished, and in some quarters, are hailed as people of<span class="st"> distinguished courage, and are rewarded for their despicable actions.&nbsp;</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st" style="font-size: large;">Indeed, some perpetrators of violence no longer seek anonymity, but live with impunity, and are</span><span class="st" style="font-size: large;"> constantly in search of the limelight. Just don't expect some individuals to voice </span><span style="font-size: large;">contrition<span class="st"> for their criminality, for many carry a bitterness towards humankind which endorses their deluded sense of superiority. </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Some people in positions of great political power rarely want the truth <span class="st"> to be made readily available to citizens. They are on a collision course with death and destruction, and look upon fellow human beings as insignificant, dispensable, a meaningless statistic.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="st">&nbsp; </span></span></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span class="st"></span></span></span></span></span>A serious and harrowing situation; criminal in itself. </span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="st">(2012) </span></span></span></div></div>Ronnie Kerriganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02467936167352274017noreply@blogger.com